One night, when we pulled back into the garage, I caughther eyes in the mirror. Her helmet was off, hair wild, cheeks flushed from the ride. She looked alive in a way that made my throat tighten. I’d said the first thing that came to mind. “You did good, Beautiful.” She pretended it didn’t make her blush, but I saw the pink rise on her warm cheeks.
And right then, it hit me how damn easy it would be to give all of myself to her. To them.
How, without even trying, they’d made the world feel like something worth coming back to.
At least until fireworks went off early one night, a sharp pop that split the daze of summer.
The sound twisted, became the crack of a gunshot, gunpowder thick in the air, desert heat pressing close. My shoulders drew up, muscles tight, heart pounding against my ribs. My breath caught, shallow and sharp, pulling me backward. My ears rang, my jaw ached, and I stayed locked in that instant. Her living room faded, replaced by a memory I would have given anything to forget.
That whip-crack pulled me straight into desert nights. Every muscle braced for the next hit. Air thin, breath tight. Past and present tangled until I couldn’t tell one from the other. In my head, I was back in the desert with dust in my eyes, ground shaking under my boots, screams in my ears.
I forced myself to look around, anchored to what was real. Zeke sprawled on the rug, twins clapping, laughter bouncing off the old couch. Camille, in a red dress, bent over her books, blue mug in hand. They were safe. I was here. My body didn’t buy it.
That’s the worst part, my own mind betraying me, ripping me out of safety, leaving me raw. PTSD doesn’t wait. It kicks down the door, wrecks your peace, anddrags you right to the edge, and it doesn’t matter if you scream or not.
So I stepped back. Kissed her forehead, muttered about being tired, got out before the night could unravel. I didn’t want her kids to see me fall apart, but she noticed. Eyes wide, searching. I wished I could explain how each blast yanked me out of the house and right back to the desert. Gunpowder in my nose, sweat and sand on my skin, body braced up and tight, every breath a fight. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t separate now from then. Just caught in the loop, hoping it would pass.
At first, I played the part. I smiled, brought cookies, wrestled with the kids, and stole kisses from Camille in the laundry room. On the surface, I looked steady. Underneath, I was unraveling. But I didn’t want the kids to see me fall apart, didn’t want Zeke to catch my hands shaking or the twins to see the panic in my eyes. So I stayed distant, told myself it was safer. Yet each time Camille looked at me, worry in her face, the guilt pressed in. I was breaking something good before it had a chance.
It’s been this way since my second deployment. July creeps up, pressure builds. Fireworks, crowds, flags waving, and everyone celebrating while I brace for impact. The nights are worse. Dreams I can’t wake from. Faces I can’t forget. Then the days hit me with smaller things like a slammed door, a car backfiring, even a toy dropping, and suddenly I’m back there again.
She didn’t know that part of me yet. Not really. The part that flinches at the wrong sound, that wakes up drenched in sweat, that stares at the ceiling trying to remember where I am. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. How do you explain something like that to someone who finally made you feel normal again?
Truth is, I pulled away because I was scared. What if she saw the parts of me I tried to hide? What if her kids noticed me flinch when popcorn popped in the kitchen? I can’t explain PTSD to a five-year-old. Hell, I can barely explain it to myself. Would letting her in show the cracks, or would that finally be real strength?
I hated the space between us. I noticed how her shoulders tightened when I left early, how her eyes lingered when my smile didn’t quite land. She thought it was her, too much, too complicated. But she wasn’t too much. She was everything. I was just afraid of breaking what we had.
Chapter Forty Seven
Camille
Eventually, Hunter distancing himself became enough that everything in my world tilted. And it came at the worst time, too, because my own life hadn’t slowed down.
I was tired. Bone-deep tired. But his presence had made that weight feel lighter, manageable even. He’d been steady, grounding, the one bright thing at the end of long days.
He’d still show up, but he’d leave earlier. His texts came slower. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was there, but I felt him slipping, like sand through my fingers. Was I too much? Was it the kids? Was it my ex bringing disruption? Or was it something else, something he wasn’t telling me?
Instead of letting these thoughts consume me, I decided to take action. I reached out to Dani and set up a time to meet. Over lunch, I opened up to her about my fears and confusion, hoping her perspective might shed some light on the situation. I also booked an appointment with my therapist, realizing that I needed professional guidance tonavigate my own emotional maze. These steps felt small but significant, a way to regain some sense of control in what felt like a spiraling situation.
The not-knowing was worse than anything.
I’d survived other exits. But with Hunter… I didn’t want to just survive this.
I wanted to fight for it.
But how do you fight what you can’t name?
The silence came slowly, like a door easing shut.
At first, it was just a longer pause before he replied. A text I’d send in the morning that he wouldn’t answer until lunch. Then it became whole afternoons. I’d type something likeHow’s your day?and watch the little “delivered” icon sit there, staring back at me. Hours passed before a reply, and sometimes, there wasn’t one at all.
The phone calls dwindled, too.
Where he used to call me every night, sometimes twice in a day just to hear my voice, now it was every other night. Then every few days. When he did call, his voice sounded tired and distracted, as if he were talking through a fog.
I told myself not to overthink it. That he was busy. That work was heavy. That maybe he just needed space. But at two in the morning, when the twins were finally asleep, and Zeke was snoring down the hall, I’d sit with the glow of my phone in my hand, staring at a blank screen, wondering if I’d done something wrong.
Each unanswered text twisted the knife deeper. They pulled me back into old stories that I swore I’d stop telling myself that people always left, that I was easier to walk away from than to stay with. And still, every time his name lit up my phone, even after hours of silence, my heart jumpedlike it always had. Because even as I doubted, even as I hurt, I wanted to believe he wasn’t like the others. I wanted to believe he’d come back. But by the end of the second week, the silence wasn’t subtle anymore. It was obvious.
